


The Things We Keep

by wynnebat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Empathy, Fluff, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Misunderstandings, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 15:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12684372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: There’s no reason for something to go wrong with Stiles’ you’re a wizard moment, which of course means something does.





	The Things We Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green/gifts).



> A giftfic for Green through the Fandom Loves Puerto Rico auction! :D

The wait for Stiles' magical powers kick in is excruciating. First had been the rounds of tests he'd had to pass to see how much innate power and control he had, then there had been a series of lectures before Deaton let Stiles lay a single hand on his books, and then there had been the ritual he'd had to perform under the light of the full moon in the middle of nowhere in the preserve. Deaton had dragged his feet over the whole thing, refusing to let Stiles do it until Stiles was at least eighteen, so it had been on the night of Stiles' eighteenth birthday that he'd performed the ritual. He'd done all the necessary work while, in the background, Peter stood around critiquing the placement of the magical pathway-opening runes Stiles was painting onto himself in paint mixed with mountain ash and his own blood and tears. And then when Stiles got the green light via feeling like he'd been run over by a truck the day after the ritual, his side of the equation was complete. All that's left for him to do now is wait, which Stiles has never been particularly good at.

"It's been _three months_ ," Stiles groans, walking into Peter's apartment without bothering to knock. The door is unlocked, so he assumes Peter isn't feeling too antisocial. He collapses dramatically on Peter's couch, hoping the display will grant him a bit of Peter's pity and a lot of whatever smells so good in Peter's kitchen. "I'm cranky, I'm tired, I feel like a giant bruise every second of the day, and I still have no idea when it's going to happen."

Deaton had warned him that the process could take years, but Stiles hadn't really taken that warning to heart. He's fantastic with mountain ash and his aptitude tests had been good enough for Deaton to actually willingly give him the information Stiles was asking for. He has all the makings of a fucking fantastic magic user. Now if only the universe could agree with Stiles already, that would be swell. It's been long enough and painful enough that Stiles has to actively push down the thought of using the cleansing ritual Deaton gave him the night of the ritual. It would cleanse the pain completely—but it would also cleanse Stiles of any possibility of ever being able to do magic. Even the things he can do with mountain ash would be lost to him, leaving him with just the ability to manually pour it instead of being able to throw it and watch it fall into exactly the right formation.

"I think I've heard this before," comes Peter's voice from the kitchen, but he doesn't immediately join Stiles. "Next is your complaint about having to deal with people while you're in constant pain."

Stiles relaxes further as he listens to the quiet sounds of whatever Peter's doing. He can't relax completely with his body feeling as it does, like it's one step away from popping and is going to ache all it can in the meantime, but at least he doesn't have to deal with hundreds of teenagers making things even worse. School is always some level of awful, but it ratcheted up fast when Stiles opened himself to this. Stiles is counting the days until graduation—twenty-eight—with anticipation.

"Everyone's heard this before," Stiles mutters. "Even people not in the know, who seem to be under the impression that I'm half a breath away from dying because of some of the things they've overheard. I heard one of Jackson's friends planning what he'd wear to my funeral and Jackson didn't even try to stop him, the asshole."

"Did he at least have good taste?"

"Apparently he'd wear his nicest jeans, which I really appreciate." Stiles scowls up at the ceiling. "I deserve at least a full tux at my funeral. I won't be there to enjoy it, but people should still go all-out. It should be a classy event."

"I'll keep that under consideration," Peter drawls, his voice sounding closer. From the corner of his eye, Stiles watches him take a seat in the armchair on the same side of the couch as Stiles' head. He doesn't look like he's about to be a jerk and kick Stiles out, but Peter can be sneaky about his jerkiness sometimes.

Noticing Peter lift a mug of tea to his lips, Stiles scrambles to sit up. "Hey, where's—"

And then he grins, because there's his mug on the coffee table. "Thanks. I forgive you for not being properly understanding of my plight."

"Your plight was chosen by you despite many objections from everyone around you about the danger of what you were planning to do," Peter replies, looking so unsympathetic. Stiles flips him off, but he also remembers the way Peter had tried once in the beginning to take Stiles' pain and the expression on his face when it hadn't worked. "Why are you here, Stiles?"

Ostensibly, his reason is that there's something in that lake to the north of the town. There have started to be rumors about Beacon Hills having its own Loch Ness monster and that isn't good for anyone, so the pack needs to figure out how to relocate whatever it is. Or convince it to only come up at night. Stiles plans to go through Peter's brain and books and find out what their possible options are. But also, he plans to stay long enough for Peter to give in and feed him, then lazily ask if Peter wants to take advantage of Derek's Netflix subscription and watch half of the first season of The Good Place. It's not his fault that Peter refuses to share the password and Stiles is stuck coming here to feed his addiction. (The fact that his dad has offered to pay for a subscription of their own and the fact that Stiles could just as easily find everything he needs online—those facts have no bearing on anything.)

Even though Stiles has given up trying to deny how comfortable he feels in Peter's presence, Stiles honestly isn't sure if Peter even likes him half the time. His self-esteem has never been especially high, but he knows he's not imagining the ways Peter pushes him away sometimes and gets all distant. He always lets Stiles back in after some time goes by and gets all nice, but he ignores every question of, "What the hell was that, man?" And then Peter does something like letting him come over with questions about the current problem in Beacon Hills and making him tea and trying to take his pain. It makes no sense at all. Still, it's been a while since the last time Peter got all weird, so Stiles relaxes.

"I'm here to drink you out of all your tea," Stiles says with a contented sigh as he brings the mug up to his lips. One of these days, he's really going to have to wear Peter down and get him to tell Stiles where he buys his teas. Stiles sometimes thinks the man makes his own, which he pushes down because the fact that he trusts Peter enough to drink whatever herbs the man puts in there is a lot to handle. "Also—"

The mug drops out of his hands, the liquid spilling out onto Stiles' jeans and the carpet.

 _Peter's going to be pissed,_ Stiles manages to think, before he's left without any conscious thoughts at all. It's too much, too fast, too painful. Stiles can't feel his limbs but he can feel the fiery pain throughout every inch of skin. Deaton had said that Stiles would have to contact him if the event lasts longer than ten minutes, but it already feels like ten hours and Stiles can't focus on a single thing. He'd gone over what to do with all his friends, so Peter would at least know what to do, but the thought doesn't bring him any calm. There's too much pressure surrounding him and if this is magic Stiles doesn't want it, not at all. But just beyond there's a steady presence and the sensation of something trying to reach his ears. _Hold on, Stiles, can you hear me, open your eyes._ It's a steadying tether in the madness in Stiles' head. There's a sound of something breaking, but for the life of him Stiles can't tell if it's in his head or outside it, and then suddenly it's better, it's alright.

The only thing left is the mess of Stiles' emotions, but he can deal with those. He can hear the sound of Peter's voice, the way the man's worry curls around Stiles like a blanket—

Wait. That's not normal. Peter can be worried all he wants, but Stiles can't be, shouldn't be, able to sense it.

"Oh my god," Stiles chokes out. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Peter says, his words gentle and even but the cloud of anxious confusion anything but.

"You can feel it too?" Stiles whimpers.

"Yes. Breathe with me, Stiles, come on. There's no need to panic."

Belatedly, Stiles realizes it's not only Peter's emotions he can feel, but the sensation of Peter's arms around him. "There's every need to panic."

"You're alive, you have all your limbs, and you haven't stepped into the path of a witch's spell that left you and the poor werewolf trying to tug you back stranded in the middle of nowhere on the other end of the state."

"Are you going to bring that up every time?" Stiles manages to say, gasping for one breath, then another. He can feel the thud of Peter's pulse against his cheek, the way it thumps in an even motion with the sway of Peter's emotions. There's so many of them, all so complicated, but they're all overshadowed by a desperate sort of concern.

"It was a very traumatizing experience," Peter replies, rubbing circles into Stiles' back.

But Stiles can pick out a strand of amusement somewhere deep inside the cloud, and, "Liar. You're such a liar."

"I've never claimed to be anything but," Peter says. He doesn't do anything to dislodge Stiles from desperately clinging to him, so Stiles continues. He works on matching his breathing with Peter's, ignoring the quiet praise when he finally manages to stop panicking. When he does, he feels the tips of Peter's fingers lose their claws. Stiles doesn't feel any pain, so Peter couldn't have lost that much control, but he doesn't know when in the agony he'd accidentally bound them like this. Before Stiles can say the words, Peter adds, "Don't apologize. I doubt you did this on purpose."

"I'll apologize if I feel like it," Stiles grumbles, relaxing his tight hold but still not untangling himself from Peter. "It's my fault. I don't know what I did, but you were there and I think I just— I don't know, I focused too hard. All of the awesome control Deaton's under the impression I have is apparently a myth."

"I'm sure you'll be able to break the connection as easily as you formed it. Deaton will have to deal."

"Why are you being so nice?"

"I'm being hit over the head with just how worried and apologetic you are," Peter replies, a little wry, a lot sincere. "It's hard to be angry with you when I can quite literally feel the way you came apart." The cloud of Peter's emotions intensifies for a moment, then backs off, as though the man is forcing himself to calm down.

"Oh," Stiles mutters. He wants to ask what else Peter feels, but he still feels too raw about the whole thing. He tells himself that the second Peter's emotions indicate that he wants Stiles to get off, he'll do it. But nothing happens. Peter's worry stays present, but it fades, and something nice curls around him instead. "You're so warm," Stiles murmurs, relishing the feeling of Peter all around him. "You don't actually hate me, do you?"

"I've made a solid effort at it, but it hasn't taken," Peter replies. There's nothing in his voice that gives it away, but the plain affection is so clear around him, wrapping around Stiles like a cuddly blanket. "Is that all you feel?"

"You feel vulnerable, probably because you're not exactly Mr. Emotional," Stiles says, swallowing. He forces himself to lift his head and meet Peter's eyes. It's his magic that messed things up. Stiles owes him honesty. "You're all worried because you care about me. You like me? Like as a person? The nice warm part of the cloud feels old, like it's been there for a while. Do I feel the same way?"

"I'd need more time to fully understand what I'm registering—"

"—so you're saying you have everything only 99% figured out—"

"—but I suppose I can now be content with the fact that my presence is rather calming for you. You—" his brow furrows, and Stiles really can feel his confusion "—were afraid earlier, then guilty, but while the guilt remains, you're not afraid. You feel safe around me." Peter looks like he can barely believe what he's saying. "I've known for a while now that your heart skips when you say you hate me, but this is different. Although I suppose if I mention Lydia—ah, there's that flare of affection. You really do need to get over her."

"Hey!" Stiles tries to frown at him, but he kind of wants to laugh. Only Peter would casually use Stiles' emotions against him, right after doing so well at calming him down. Well, joke's on him, because any flare of affection Stiles feels is his stupid brain liking most things Peter does, even when the man is prodding at his supposed weak spots. Honestly, Stiles has a problem.

He's always known that this research-based thing he and Peter have has an expiration date. One of these days Peter is going to either do something to offend Stiles' morals (which isn't a long list these days, but it's always possible Peter will go out and murder a baby or something) or Stiles will find a way to finally get on Peter's last nerve. And if nothing happens the situation will clear itself up in four months anyway, once Stiles leaves for college. But until then, Stiles likes having Peter around. It's nice—better than nice, so good that Stiles can't believe his luck—to know that Peter feels something similar. Maybe not as much as Stiles does, but enough.

At least some of the time, Stiles reminds himself, remembering the times Peter tried to push him away.

"I should go see Deaton about this," Stiles says, reluctantly getting up. "He'll know what to do."

Peter nods, giving Stiles a thoughtful look. Stiles wonders if he'd noticed Stiles' sudden spike of teenage angst, but knows he wouldn't be lucky enough for Peter to miss it. At least Peter can't read his mind; it's embarrassing enough that Stiles likes Peter so much more than Peter likes him, no matter what he's picking up from Peter's emotions. The warmth he feels from him is probably just heightened concern over the fact that Stiles had come so undone right beside him.

Stiles hightails out of the apartment before Peter can say anything else. He spends the drive to Deaton's trying to ignore the fact that he can still feel Peter's emotions even once he's on the other side of town. Peter's contentment only lasts a few minutes after Stiles leaves, then turns into something stranger, more brooding. There's a sharpness to the brooding that Stiles doesn't like at all, so he hurries into the animal clinic and tears Deaton away from whoever he's talking to.

"Stiles, I have a legitimate business to run," Deaton chides. "But congratulations—"

"No time for that, sorry, Dr. Deaton. I have an emergency."

"You and the rest of your friends always do. What is it this time?"

Uncomfortably, hating the fact that he's going to disappoint his mentor, Stiles says, "I accidentally did something while coming into my magic. I, uh, anchored to Peter? Or something. I don't know. I can feel all of his emotions and he can feel mine."

"There's no such thing as an accidental anchoring," Deaton says, furrowing his brows. "Stiles, you shouldn't have been able to do that in the first place. The only way that can happen is—"

"Is something I don't want to hear?"

"Is if you have a strong connection to another person, a connection that rivals in strength the one you have to your magic."

"Like a pack bond?" Stiles asks, hopefully.

Deaton shakes his head. "Something like a marriage bond, but you would know if that were the case. You would have to have given informed consent for one to form. Or it could be—"

"—oh god never mind don't say it—"

"—a mating bond," Deaton finishes, frowning at Stiles. Hopefully for the interruption and not for a thing Stiles has absolutely no control over. He's done a lot of stupid shit, but this isn't even on purpose.

"I don't know what that is, but it shouldn't count if we haven't actually mated, right? _Right_? We haven't banged, Peter hasn't bitten me in any mating bite-y places, we're not even in a relationship for fuck's sake. We're just… two dudes who talk to each other sometimes." At Peter's apartment, to which Stiles received a set of keys to when Peter got tired of Stiles picking the lock. Peter’s just the person Stiles texts most, the one he sits next to during the pack meetings Peter bothers to attend, the man he’d like to spend the rest of his life with in any way possible. It’s not a relationship so much as a deep knowledge of the fact that Stiles wants so much more than Peter does.

"A mating bond isn't dependent on reciprocation, necessarily, and it isn't fated or permanent or whatever you might be thinking of. It forms naturally and acts as a signal of feelings from one werewolf to another. Generally, when the intent isn't reciprocated, the bond fades away on its own." Deaton sighs at whatever he sees on Stiles' face. "Within a few months, you should be able to develop the skill to control the connection between you. Or, more easily, you could stop associating with him and wait for the connection to fade. While genuine and deep feelings are a prerequisite for the bond, I have my doubts that Peter Hale of all people would be able to withstand keeping up a connection after a month or so."

Except he has, Stiles knows, thinking back. A year ago, some months after Peter had resurrected himself and decided to hang up his murder cap, they'd started working together more. Stiles had started going to him for help and trusting the information Peter gave him to not screw him over. Then their first incident with witches happened and Stiles had been forced to drag Peter's mostly unconscious body out of a forest he didn't recognize at all, then swipe Peter's credit card and rent a car back to Beacon Hills from the town three hours away that they'd somehow been teleported to. After all the effort he'd gone through to alleviate the symptoms of Peter's curse and get the witch who'd done it to dispel it, Stiles had thought he'd at least get a thank you. Instead, Peter had made himself scarce for two months.

Eventually, he'd come back around, and Stiles had been able to start keeping an eye on him again. 'Keeping an eye on him' had accidentally turned into 'keeping an eye on Peter's vast supernatural creature-related knowledge', which had in turn flowed into 'keeping an eye on Peter's alarming state of not catching up on all the movies he'd missed during his coma years'. By the time it turned into 'keeping an eye on Peter's body, but like subtly' Stiles hadn't even been surprised. And yet, every few months, Peter would still try to push Stiles away, though never for as long as that first time.

It feels like their whole history is being rewritten before his eyes.

Fuck, that warmth, that concern, it hadn't been friendship.

Stiles really needs to get better at figuring these things out. Still, the fact that Peter hasn't said anything about this tugs at his mind.

Stiles drops into a chair in the waiting room. The woman next to him, who's bringing her dog in for his yearly checkup, asks him if he wants to hold her little corgi and tells him that everything's going to be just fine. She probably thinks he's worried about a pet of his and usually half a dozen dog jokes would cross Stiles' mind, but right now he's just a mess of confusion.

When the bell above the door jingles, Stiles isn't surprised to see Peter, not with the way he'd been able to feel the stormcloud that is Peter Hale coming closer.

"You're angry," Peter says, coming to a stop across from Stiles. "I suppose Deaton told you about why this probably happened?"

And Peter's all worried again, but Peter can shove that worry up his ass. "You never told me. Why wouldn't you just tell me you're in love with me instead of trying to push me away all the time? Since it clearly fails every time? And then you started acting all twitchy when I started getting serious about opening up my—" wait, he's in the middle of Deaton's clinic "—you know what. You knew I'd be able to feel it after." He knows he's being unfair, that Peter's feelings are his own, but the confusing jumble of Peter's emotions isn't helping him keep his head straight at all. Peter's resentful and unsure and hurt, and Stiles doesn't like it on him at all, no matter how confused or angry he feels.

"I had my suspicions," Peter replies, and he feels so miserable that Stiles considers passing him the corgi. "But what exactly was I supposed to do? You've been in love with Lydia for half your life. That's not something I can compete with, no matter how friendly we became."

"Oh my god you asshole, I tell Lydia I love her all the time because I do, but I'm not in love with her and I don't want to be with her. We'd drive each other bonkers within a week." At that, there's hope building in that stormcloud of Peter's. Stiles tries to hold onto his anger, but it slips through his fingers in the face of every strand of hope nudging at his consciousness. His own, Peter's. Judging by the way Peter's lips are twitching upward, Peter has noticed. Attempting to sound threatening, but the words coming out rather fond, Stiles says, "You're going to quit avoiding me."

"Scout's honor," Peter promises. "Come with me, Stiles. Please. I'll not-avoid you over dinner."

Stiles passes the corgi back to its owner, who along with all the other people in the waiting room has been making a valiant effort at pretending to not be eavesdropping, and stands up, taking Peter's outstretched hand. He steps closer, meeting Peter halfway and grasping at Peter's shirt as they pull each other in. And yeah, that's love there, both in Peter's kiss and all around them, so much that Stiles can't tell where his own emotions end and Peter's begin. It's heady, the knowledge that it's all because of Stiles, that it's all for him and him alone.

Stiles pulls away just enough to say, "Also, you'll have to deal with the fact that I won't be able to fix this for a while. Deaton says it'll take a couple months. Sorry. Love you."

"Somehow, I'll manage to find a way to deal with the metaphysical proof of the fact that you care about me," Peter replies, and Stiles tries to kiss that bit of smugness he senses out of him. He fails, but there's all the time in the world to make another attempt.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm also on tumblr as @[crownwithoutstones](https://crownwithoutstones.tumblr.com/).


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